


In the Deep Midwinter

by narrativeimperative



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunters, Angel Castiel, Cabin Fic, Castiel Whump, Hunter Dean, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Monster Castiel, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Sharing Body Heat, Virgin Castiel, Weak Castiel, castiel is also kind of a dick, dean's kind of a dick, shameless smut in emergency situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2765882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrativeimperative/pseuds/narrativeimperative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean wrenched open the door to the cabin and stopped dead in his tracks. Sam had explained the situation to him on the phone, so Dean had known it was going to be bad, but this ... this was pretty bad. The angel was naked to the waist. He wasn’t struggling and he was sort of breathing, and that was where the good news ended.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Hunter AU. If there's one thing a good hunter knows, it's to stay away from angels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Deep Midwinter

Dean wrenched open the door to the cabin and stopped dead in his tracks. Sam had explained the situation to him on the phone, so Dean had known it was going to be bad, but this ... this was pretty bad.

The angel was lying face-down on the floor, arms bound tightly in front of him and fastened with a short, unforgiving length of rope to one of the O-rings embedded in the stonework of the fireplace. Dean recognized the knots as Sam’s handiwork, and thanked his lucky stars that his brother had paid attention during Scouts.

The angel was naked to the waist. He wasn’t struggling and he was sort of breathing, and that was where the good news ended.

The right wing was just clean gone. Only a few forlorn inches of the main shaft were left, the pale feathers matted with blood and dirt and the greasy, guttering remnants of his grace.

Dean didn’t want to meet whatever could do _that_ to an angel.

But their concern right now was the other wing. Sam held up the lantern as Dean ducked in closer to inspect it. This one was injured further away from the base. The limb was still attached by flesh and sinew, but the bones weren’t merely broken, they were crushed. The wing was slack and limp, and it was all too obvious that the angel had no control over it – too many nerves had been severed.

It was clearly irreparable.

Sam looked a little sick. Dean didn’t blame him: it wasn’t pretty.

In the open air, an angel’s wingspan was terrifying and massive, but inside the four walls of the tiny cabin, even just the one wing was absurdly oversized. Sam had done his best, but the space was inadequate and the huge limb was twisted up awkwardly against the wall.

Normally angels relied on some kind of internal magic to support their enormous limbs, but this angel didn’t have enough juice to fight gravity any more. The full weight of the twisted wing was pulling on his back, and there was nothing Sam could do to keep it from exerting pressure on the wound.

Dean did some quick mental calculation. It was clear the angel didn’t have enough mojo to fix this on his own, and he and Sam both knew how far from civilization they were.

The angel was silent. Sam had tied him down firmly – for their protection, and possibly the angel’s, too. He didn’t seem to be aware of either of them. Did angels go into shock? From what Dean could see of his face, it was ashen and damp with sweat.

“You see what did it?” Dean asked Sam.

“No. Site was clear when I got there, and he’s not talking.” Sam met Dean’s eyes. “He’s hurting, Dean.”

Dean nodded. He knew what Sam was feeling: some guilt, some sympathy – more than a little greed.

Because on the one hand, yeah, this was a shame – angels were rare and beautiful, even if they were dangerous as fuck. It wasn’t often you heard of an angel getting injured. Dean had seen a few dead ones, sure – Dad had taken them both to see that one on display in Colorado – but he’d never seen one come down in battle like this.

On the other, both of them knew what angels’ feathers were worth to the right buyer. The entire west coast black market pretty much ran off their bones. Imagine what a whole wing could do for them. This one was never going to fly again – the wing was going to have to come off anyways. On the Winchester Scale of the Morally Dubious, this barely rated. This was a stroke of luck and they’d be idiots to ignore it.

But a wise hunter knew you didn’t touch an angel. Sam and Dean had hunted a lot of creatures in their time, but angels were on another level. Not only were the bastards vicious, intelligent, and insanely powerful, but if you went toe to toe with one and happened to make it out in one piece, the next thing you knew the entire garrison would be down on your head. They were like wasps that way. You didn’t see injured angels because nobody was willing to take the risk – it meant sure death.

Still. Whatever they did next, it was going to be a risk.

Dean looked at the angel’s face, obscured in the low light of the cabin, and felt a twinge of guilt despite himself. From what he could see of it, it was a handsome face, with a firm jaw and soft lips. He looked almost human like this, but there was something about the eyes. Even though they were glazed and unfocused, they were supernaturally bright.

Dean locked eyes with Sam and nodded. They were in too deep now to go back. There was no saving the wing: they’d just have to hope his garrison wouldn’t kill them when they found him.

If they found him.

If he survived.

“Let’s get started, then.”

They did it efficiently, with a few sharp cuts from the blessed blade they kept on standby. Dean did the actual hacking; Sam, who was stronger, held the angel down, one hand on his back and the other on his neck, just in case.

They shouldn’t have worried – the angel barely twitched, he was so far gone. He must have been haemorrhaging grace to be so out of it. If he’d been at full strength, even the holy blade would have struggled to cut through angel flesh; as it was, Dean sawed through it as easily as venison.

There was a lot of blood.

Dean had forgotten how unreal it seemed up close, like the red from a kid’s paint set rather than the rougey black of human blood.

With another few firm slices, he removed the other stub. That one was easier – it had already begun to wither.

There was a moment afterwards when Sam panicked and rushed to check the angel’s pulse, but eventually he determined that their patient was still kicking.

Dean grabbed a cold bucket of water and the dish soap from under the sink and set about cleaning the blood off the feathers.

Dean wasn’t squeamish – he wouldn’t be much of a hunter if he were – but something about what they’d just done sat heavy in his stomach. He looked away while Sam grabbed the first aid kit and saw to the angel’s wounds. Sam had steady hands. Dean trusted them.

The wing was heavy and muscular and he had a hard time accordioning it into a manageable space. Even in the dim light, he could tell it was a beautiful piece. The glossy, well-tended feathers were mostly white, but a pattern of creamy bars extended to its tips and the bold, dark pinions were streaked with shades of brown, green and blue.

It would have been a shame to lose it.

“He alright?” Dean asked gruffly, not daring to look behind him as he worked. “Not going to die of blood loss or anything?” Could angels die of blood loss? Well, if this one was out of grace, it might well be possible.

This might have been easier on everyone if the angel had just died.

“He might live,” said Sam finally, standing up and wiping his hands. “He passed out, thank God.”

It wasn’t every day you held an angel’s life in your hands, and the brothers were beginning to come down off the adrenaline. Silent by agreement now, they wearily stripped and cleaned themselves of the blood and sweat at the basin in the corner. They hadn’t been up this far north in a season, and they gratefully pulled on whatever dry gear they could find in the chests. They were both shivering by the time they were done; the fire in the grate was meagre and thin, but they didn’t have enough wood to bulk it up.

They turned to look at the body lying prone on the floor.

Neither seemed eager to untie him.

It was like helping a wounded deer. You wanted the thing to survive, sure, as long as you weren’t hungry and it wasn’t trying to gore you.

“Well,” sighed Dean, “any bright ideas on what we should do with the rest of him?”

“Other than keep him alive? No. You?”

“Yeah, try to keep him from killing us when he figures out what we did to him,” Dean replied promptly.

Sam sighed. “You going to be alright while I fence this?” he asked, gesturing to the wing. It should have looked ridiculous, orphaned on the table, but it didn’t. It was almost ... intimidating. It gleamed like honey and milk in the soft golden light of the cabin.

Dean nodded sulkily. He didn’t want to be the one who stayed put, but it was their only option. He’d pissed off the Campbells last time they’d tried to barter, and Sam had completely overreacted and taken over negotiation duties. This left Dean with babysitting. He wasn’t the right man for this job – Sam was the one who could talk a civilian down through a trauma, could comfort a bereaved family with sensitive words. Dean was no good at that.

On the flip side, Sam was clearly feeling uncomfortable about what they’d done, and Sam tripped up when he got too attached. Of the two of them, Dean was probably less likely to forget that even without its wings, an angel was a nasty piece of work.

“You get going. I’ll be alright with him.”

“Just get him to bed and keep him warm, Dean,” Sam said with a frown, guilt clearly taking the upper hand now that he was leaving. “He’s probably in shock.”

Dean nodded noncommittally. “Stay safe.”

Dean heard the Challenger’s engine rev up in the quiet mountain night. With a blast of tires on the old dirt road, Sam was gone.

“Well, let’s have a look at the rest of you, eh?”

Dean knelt down beside the angel and began to untie Sam’s knots.

The angel’s eyes were still open, but the pupils weren’t tracking. Knots undone, Dean pressed his hand to his forehead. Sam was right – his forehead was burning, but the skin on his back and neck was cold and wet.

Shivering. The angel was shivering, its long, lean body beginning to curl in on itself, adjusting to the change in weight.

“Hey there angel,” said Dean, as gently as he could manage. “You got a name?”

No response – he might not be fully unconscious, but he was clearly out of it. His eyes were closed, mercifully, but his face was anything but peaceful.

Dean let out a frustrated sigh. What the hell had Sam got them into, picking up an injured angel? When you saw an angel, you ran for the goddamned hills, no questions asks. Still, he was human-shaped, and something deep inside Dean made it hard to turn his back on something that looked this pathetic.

Plus Sam would be awfully upset if he came back to find his good-will project dead on the rug.

“Okay, man, let’s get you to bed.”

Dean shifted the cold body as carefully as he could, but the angel – in shock, blanked out, whatever he was – moaned and gasped in pain at the pressure Dean was forced to put on his back. Dean winced and readjusted, moving him as carefully as he could.

He laid him down on his stomach on the bed closest to the fireplace. He was a sorry sight. Dean hesitated for only a minute before kicking off his own boots and stripping his belt. The cabin was too cold and the fire too weak to leave him on his own – this called for body heat. No biggie. He and Sam had done this dozens of times. Carefully, Dean manoeuvred himself onto the bed, and scooped up the angel’s body to rest against his chest.

The angel’s skin was sweaty and cold and the sensation was damned unpleasant.

“Need to get you warm,” Dean muttered to himself, but a blanket over his back was out of the question. Dean unbuttoned his own shirt so they were lying skin to skin, then tucked the angel’s arms into the folds of the flannel. Tucking his arms firmly around the angel’s shoulders, Dean settled back into the pillows, mostly recumbent.

Well. He’d done as much as he could. He resisted the urge to do anything more; movement could cause more trauma.

He looked down at the angel’s back. Sam had cleaned the wounds as best as he was able, but the stalks had been wide and powerful, and the wounds were deep. The surrounding muscles were trembling with the phantom weight of his lost limbs. Heavy bruising had spread out all along his shoulder blades; even just touching the skin would be painful, and there were scratches and scrapes that had gone untended in their rush.

“Tomorrow,” Dean promised him, grimly. He didn’t want to think too much about what tomorrow was going to look like.

Shifting to slide into a more comfortable position, Dean registered that the angel was still shaking.

It was reassuring – at least he wasn’t dead.

“Come on, man, breath it out. Deep breaths, come on.” Dean wasn't sure if anything was getting through, but the angel began to meet the rhythm of Dean’s breathing and their chests rose and fell together.

This actually wasn’t so uncomfortable, Dean thought to himself, as he slipped down further into the pillows. If you forgot about the terrifying cosmic powers thing. He and Sam had been up here on their own several weeks now, and it felt good to hold something pliable and human-shaped in his arms. The angel was warming up, head resting low on Dean’s chest. He was heavy, but that was a problem for a few hours from now. At the moment, this was fine – it was even nice.

A little too nice, actually.

Dean felt some vague interest stirring down south, and sighed. Wrong species, he scolded his dick. He did his best to shift, but the angel was pressing heavy and solid against him, and the friction was just enough to remind him how long it had been.

Great. Just what he needed.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it now – his track record might have been a little sketchy, but there were some depths he wouldn’t stoop to, and jacking off with a half-dead angel in his bed appeared to be one of them.

Resigned and increasingly uncomfortable, Dean forced himself to close his eyes and tried his best to get to sleep.

 

Dean wasn’t sure what woke him – maybe he’d never really been asleep – but he jolted to alertness with the morning sun streaming in bright through the window and a blade held to his neck.

The blessed blade, he realized, had been within easy access on the mantel, and now there was an extremely angry angel with a knife at his throat.

Binding his wrists might have been a good idea, said the voice of hindsight.

“Oookay, easy now,” said Dean, meeting the angel’s eyes.

The arm that held the knife was shaking, but his eyes burned with piercing light and it was damn obvious he wasn’t too particular about the integrity of Dean’s major arteries.

“Where am I?” demanded the creature, and Dean had to fight the urge to shrink back: his voice was like broken light bulbs and shining steel. He’d never heard an angel speak before. It was a massive voice, deep beyond anything, and harsh – violent. It was enough to bring a man to his knees.

Happily, two decades of training kicked in right on schedule and Dean knocked him to the floor with a quick, sharp kick of his leg.

The angel fell hard, cried out and dropped the knife, and Dean scrambled up off the bed into a fighting stance before realizing, several frantic seconds later, that the reason that the angel hadn’t risen to attack him again was because he couldn’t. Dean had shoved him hard and he’d landed with full force on his injured back, and now he was lying on his side, stunned, at Dean’s feet.

Dean was shocked that he’d downed him in one go – then realized that this was probably the first time he’d felt full-on mortal pain without the shield of his grace.

He was also minus a few limbs, which was enough to make anyone wince.

Now, winded from the pain, the angel clambered desperately onto his hands and knees. Dean tensed himself for another attack, but he didn’t have to worry: the angel’s arms gave way beneath him and he collapsed with a cry. He couldn’t use his arms to lift his body weight – it was obviously too painful for the mutilated muscles of his shoulders.

“What in God’s name did you do?” the creature gasped from the rough cabin floor, turning the full gigawatt force of his glare onto Dean. His voice was like the crack in stained glass. “You took my wings!”

“Just the one,” said Dean, keeping his distance, more humbled by the angel’s pain than he’d admit. His own voice sounded hollow and tinny in the enormous silence the angel’s voice had left. “It was broken,” he rushed to explain, unsure if he was making things better or worse. “There was no hope for it. We amputated it – me and my brother – we had to.”

A wave of anger contorted his features. “You dared – !”

The angel made a motion like he wanted to rush Dean again, and Dean held out his arms in a “stay back” motion – he didn’t think either of them could handle that right now.

“You were alone,” Dean explained. “No one was coming for you. I get that you’re mad – hell, I’d be pissed – but you gotta believe me.”

The angel was panting now, eyes rolling in his head as he tried to take stock of his surroundings. Dean had been through enough injuries himself to recognize that look – that was the look you got when the full impact of the pain was beginning to hit.

“You took my wings ...” moaned the angel in disbelief, his voice gone weird and shivery. He reached back with one shaking hand to his limbless back. The gesture almost bowled him over – his equilibrium was warped, and he didn’t seem to be able to balance.

“Hey,” snapped Dean. He didn't care if the angel wanted to blame him for this – it was pretty much true – but there was an angry desperation in the way he was starting to claw at his body, and Dean needed to nip that shit in the bud.

He reached forward and grabbed about the angel hard by the shoulders.

The angel stared at him, fury and pain mixed with his utter incredulity that a mere human was daring to touch him like this. Sam wouldn’t have been so stupid. Dean didn’t care – he held the bony shoulders tighter and gave him a rough shake.

“Hey – hey! You listen to me, now. I know you don’t like it – I get that – but we rescued you. They left you for dead and we took you in, and I’m sorry about your wings but what’s done is done. You’re going to have to suck it up.”

Well. It wasn’t a friend-making speech, and the angel was glaring bloody murder at him, but at least he’d stopped trying to rip his own skin off.

“Now, I have to check your back, and you’re going to sit there like a good little monster and not try to kill me again, got it? Good. Now stay down and don’t move.”

Dean wasn’t sure if it was pain or pure fury that immobilized him, but it didn’t matter – panting, incredulous, trapped like a wild thing, he let Dean touch him.

Underneath his hands, the angel looked small, even though Dean knew from last night he was no shorter than him and not much thinner. He could almost pass as a man, but for those brilliant blue eyes. They glinted and shone malevolently. Dean would have felt bad for the damn thing, if he could have been sure it wasn’t going to kill him.

The angel was still as Dean fetched a lantern and the first-aid kit and set about switching out the bandages, though he quaked under Dean's touch. Dean couldn’t see his face – didn’t want to. He knew he was hurting him.

It was tricky work, and when he was done, Dean looked at the patchwork of bandages and Sam’s rough stitches and winced. It wasn’t pretty. With any luck, the wounds would heal like mortal wounds, but right now they were beacons of raw nerves and bloody flesh, leaking what little grace the angel had left.

“How you holding up?” Dean asked, when he was done.

The angel’s head had slumped down low as Dean worked, and now he was hunched all the way over.

“You’ve ruined me,” he managed in a whisper that sounded like steel wool and crystal.

“Stop whining.”

“My grace is gone. I can't hear them any more. I can’t hear their song.”

“Oh. Uh.”

Dean hadn’t even begun to think about that, but it was obvious now: without his wings, he’d lost most of his powers, his link to his garrison, everything that made him an angel.

On the one hand, it meant no gang of angels was going to surprise Dean in the middle of the night by raining fire and fury down on him.

On the other, he was little better than a human now, but without the creativity or tenacity to survive it.

And he knew it.

And that was a little too big for either of them to handle right now.

“I’m going to kill you.” Mournful, like glass. No fire in it.

“With what, hot stuff?” snapped Dean. “You can’t even hold a knife, let alone shank me with one. Now I’m going to get you back into bed, and don’t you dare try to fight me.”

Dean manhandled him back onto the bed. Despite the pain, the angel still managed to look affronted; doubtless he’d never been manhandled in his life, but he could suck it, because Dean wasn’t taking chances and that meant keeping the angel immobile.

He was as careful as he could be, but the angel was heavy and unused to his new graceless state. He also wasn’t happy to be touched and lifted and pulled, and he didn’t have either the ability or the will to help Dean help him.

By the time they’d got him back lying down, the angel didn’t seem to have anything more in him – he let his face fall onto the pillow and was still.

Dean looked down at the figure, his back already a motley of purple and blue.

“I’m not your enemy,” he said, but without rancour. He wasn’t going to fight that fight – he didn’t need to begrudge the poor bastard anything right now.

The angel seemed to be breathing. _Not dead_ and _not trying to kill me_ – that was what he and Sam had agreed on. So far, so good.

Well. He had an angry ex-angel in his bed, and a snow warning for the weekend, and no TV. Swell.

 

Dean spent the day chopping wood and stoking the fire and cleaning up the cabin as best he could. Clouds were gathering and it began to feel like snow outside. There was a lot needed doing if they were going to be holed up here while the angel healed, if that was even the plan. He dug through the cupboards in the other rooms to find more blankets and rations, figured out which appliances worked and which were more likely to kill them, and checked in periodically on the angel, who was – if not asleep – then spaced out in an attempt to escape the pain.

Dean thought better of trying to talk to him. The angel didn’t look up for much, but Dean didn’t put it past him to make an angry lunge and try to throttle him. And on the other hand, in the face of his obvious trauma, Dean had no idea how to be sensitive to his existential crisis.

The shivering started after dinner – well, after Dean ate dinner, because the angel had taken one look at the “human food” and turned away, disgusted.

“You’re cold,” Dean said, and it wasn’t a question. The temperature in the cabin had dropped with the sunset, and the angel’s body was clearly shutting down in an attempt to handle his injuries.

His words startled the angel out of a twitchy half-doze, and he looked around, disoriented. He fixed those big, unblinking eyes on the hunter, and Dean felt himself give, just a little.

“Come here,” he said, not ungently.

“What are you doing?” asked the angel, drowsy and sad, in a voice like wind through splintered metal.

“Just come here.”

Dean had got the boiler working that afternoon. While the basin was filling, he helped the angel off the bed and stripped him without apologies or pretence, trusting he wasn’t going to try and shank him again. Angels weren’t as weird about nudity as humans, thank God. The angel, for his part, let Dean direct his body, too tired to fight, and when Dean pressed, he slipped into the tub without complaint.

Dean washed the crusted blood off him in long, slow strokes, careful to keep the water away from his bandages. The angel seemed to melt under his hands – Dean doubted angels often went in for creature comforts. Having a bath might be a new experience for him. He dried him off thoroughly, extremely careful around the injuries and the bruising on his back. He bundled him up into socks and sweats, but anything that rubbed against the deep, raw sores on his back was out. No shirts.

He bathed next, happy to wash away the accumulated sweat and filth from the last few days. The angel watched him dully, disinterestedly. Dean ignored him – he could stare all he wanted.

He dried himself off, then set about putting them both to bed. There was no way to avoid it – he had to keep him warm and in the absence of clothes and blankets that meant body heat, and he could suck rocks if he didn’t like it. Still, Dean was careful to angle the angel’s naked back to the fire, arranging their limbs so that the angel was lying warm against his chest, but loose, could pull away if he wanted space.

“You comfy?” asked Dean. “This alright?”

The angel roused himself enough to be spiteful. “You cut off my wings and I am in extreme pain. I am not ‘alright.’”

“I meant, I’m not cutting off circulation to your arms if I do this.”

“No,” he said resentfully, after a moment.

It wasn’t a “hell to the yeah,” but it would do.

He was still shivering.

“Warm enough?”

The angel’s silence was loud, so Dean rucked up the blankets as best he could, careful not to let them touch the raw wounds. He pulled him in closer, winding his arms around the angel’s waist and settling his bare chest tight against his own, hoping the fire would be enough to keep his back warm.

Angry cuddling. This could work.

Dean had had a hard day and a shitty sleep, and he was about ready to drop off, but the angel was twitching in his arms, unable to keep still, restless in his pain.

On a sleepy impulse, Dean raised an arm and began to rub the angel’s neck. The angle was awkward, but his muscles felt like concrete under his grip, and Dean figured he needed it.

“How’s that feel?” he asked, rubbing the tension at the base of his scalp.

“What are you doing?” asked the angel peevishly, apparently not too tired to argue.

“Massage. It'll help. Trust me.” Dean was careful to stay away from the shoulder blades, but he let his hand trail down the angel’s side to the sweet little dip in his lower spine and work at the overwrought muscles there.

The angel didn’t say anything, but after a moment he inched closer to Dean, until they were tucked right in next to each other. The angel closed his eyes and nestled – yeah, that was the only damn word for it – _nestled_ his head onto Dean’s chest.

Dean felt a little smug at the minor victory, until he realized that the angel’s skin was damp and cool despite the bath. He was still shivering.

Well. If they were doing this, they might as well do it right. Dean dropped his calf over the angel’s, twining their legs together more comfortably. As a not-entirely-unanticipated bonus, this brought their hips in to slot together at a supremely satisfying angle. Dean felt his dick twitch fretfully at the pressure.

Down, boy. This wasn’t the time.

Tentatively, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to be allowed, the angel brought his arm to rest on Dean’s waist. Dean kept himself from yelping – the angel’s hand was like ice.

It wasn’t, he told himself sternly, that he was getting turned on by this. Angels were cold, terrifying, ruthless assholes, and they’d been his enemies ever since dad had shown him how to fire a shotgun. It’s just that this angel was – Dean had to face it – pretty appealing in the whole face area, and the tight little box of his hips was shoved up square against Dean’s crotch, and his dick didn’t know the difference between human and angel, or appropriate and inappropriate – all it knew was _yes please more_.

It didn’t help that the angel was burrowing into Dean with tiny little gasps and pants and moans now, evidence that whatever Dean was doing to him now, it felt better than what Dean had done to him yesterday.

“Yeah?” Dean murmured against his temple, because he was an asshole and couldn’t help it. “Told you this would feel good.”

And it must have felt good, because the angel gave a full-body wriggle as Dean increased the pressure on his spine, and they both moaned.

Dean was growing promisingly hard in the happy pressure between their bodies, but the angel’s dick was unaffected. Dean felt a rush of relief – angels were foreigners to the whole human sex thing; he probably hadn’t even noticed that Dean was getting it up. He was probably just grateful for the warmth.

Good. They didn’t need to have that talk.

At least, Dean thought so, until the gravelly voice said, “You are aroused.” It was low and irritated and sounded about as banal as a comment on the weather. Dean almost laughed.

Well then. Busted.

“Yeah. That bother you?”

“I am completely indifferent to humans and your inexplicable urges,” the angel said darkly. “Is it normal?”

Dean decided to interpret that as: Do we need to have a Committee Meeting about this, or can you keep stroking my back?

He responded by firmly kneading the angel’s shoulders, which brought forth a full-throated moan of approval.

“Yeah, it’s normal. Don’t worry about it. What, angels don’t get hard?” He realized that even though angels had the same kit – he’d had a pretty good look at his junk while he was rubbing him down in the bath – he didn’t know what angel sex even began to look like.

“It’s ... different,” the angel said, slowly, as Dean’s fingers worked his shoulders.

“Can’t be that different,” said Dean. “You’ve got the same package.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Mm. Feels pretty relevant.” And Dean – because he could never leave well enough alone – punctuated this statement with a little roll of his hips, pressing his erection against the angel’s stomach.

It was only after he’d done it that he froze, realized he might have gone too far.

There was a shiver of something dark in the angel’s eyes.

His hand had been resting uncertainly on Dean’s waist, but now it moved.

It moved down, down, to the bulge beneath Dean’s sweats.

Oh, shit.

Dean held his breath when he realized what was going on: he didn’t know if the angel was going to rip it off or rub one out, but he resisted the urge to yank the angel’s hand away.

Instead, after only a split second’s indecision, Dean tugged the waistband of his sweats down the few inches he needed to let his dick pop out over the elastic. Keenly aware that this might be the stupidest thing he’d ever done, he braced himself for the punishing pressure of the angel’s hand, for the heat of a closed fist, for _something_.

It didn’t come. The angel simply placed his hand atop his Dean’s dick, his eyes closed once again and his cheek still pressed to Dean's chest. Delicate. Just feeling.

Huh. Dean knew the creature in his arms possessed had powers beyond Dean’s wildest dreams, and he should be appropriately awed, but right now he just seemed kind of ... sweet. Childlike. Just letting Dean’s dick rest in his fingers like that.

“How’s it feel?” purred Dean, in his best come-and-get-it voice.

It was entirely lost on the angel.

“Mine doesn't do that,” he said. Dean could barely hear him, but he could feel the vibration of his voice travel through his chest. “It doesn't get ... rigid like yours.”

“Never?”

Silence.

“I’ll bet it does,” grinned Dean. He bucked his hips again, hoping to encourage the angel to shift his grip, but his fingers stayed tantalizingly relaxed and gentle. “You’re probably just not touching it right.”

“Why would I touch it?”

“ _What do you mean_ , why – Do angels not – ” _jerk off_ , he was going to say, but that felt too weird to ask, somehow. “Don’t angels have sex?”

“Of course we do. But these things are different for us,” he murmured, hand still soft and innocent where Dean wanted hard and dirty.

“So you’re telling me you’ve never jerked yourself off?”

“What?”

“Masturbated.”

“ _No_ ,” said the angel, quellingly.

Dean took a breath, and went for it.

“I’d be happy to help you out with that,” he said, in a low voice. He let his fingers run along the waistband of the angel’s sweats. There was a sharp little intake of breath, but the angel didn’t retract his hand from Dean’s dick, and he didn’t say anything to stop Dean’s hand.

Well, it wasn’t _dis_ couraging.

Dean let his fingers curl around the elastic, let the heel of his wrist press down against the angel’s dick through the fabric. It was sadly limp, but Dean was pretty sure he could fix that. He gave the flesh a little encouraging bump with his hand, nothing dramatic, but the angel hissed and his body went taut as a wire. There was a little flinch of interest underneath his hand.

Dean grinned. This was going to be fun. Slowly, he began to pull the sweatpants down his skinny hips.

“No,” whispered the angel suddenly. “Stop.” His fist balled up tight against Dean’s hip. There was no imperiousness in his tone now; he sounded hollow and confused.

Dean stopped immediately.

Hell. Stupid move, Winchester. Someone’s getting smited tomorrow.

“Fair enough,” he said, drawing his hand back. “Sorry, dude.”

“I don’t ...”

“Shh, shh,” said Dean, when it became clear the angel had no idea where to go with that sentence. “It’s okay. Just thought I’d offer. No worries.” He let the angel’s pants slide safely back into place. On impulse, he brought his hand to rub reassuringly against the angel’s belly. Man, he _had_ gone stiff and unhappy – his stomach was clenched hard, and only gradually relaxed under Dean’s hand. Dean had upset him – he was trembling.

“We don’t ... do that ... to ourselves,” the angel said, eventually, mouth pressed tight against Dean’s chest, as though he was trying to keep something in. His hand was still balled against Dean’s hip, warm where it brushed against his erection.

Well, at least he’d warmed the guy up.

“No worries,” said Dean, bumping his nose against the angel’s temple as he continued stroking his belly.

No touching the angel’s junk, affirmative.

He still had a raging hard-on, though.

“D’you mind if I ...?”

“What?”

“Take care of myself?”

“Mm.”

Dean took that for an affirmative. He turned onto his back, and was surprised when the angel moved with him, following the warmth. Dean wasn’t complaining – it felt nice to have a warm arm wrapped around his waist and a head pillowed on his shoulder. He pushed the blanket down a little, hissing when the cold air of the room hit his body.

He adjusted the waistband of his pants.

The angel made to move his hand away from where it was still resting against Dean’s hip, but Dean caught his wrist, very gently.

“You could help me out,” he said, softly. “If you wanted.”

The angel had never seemed more alien than he did in that moment, blue eyes large and unblinking as he stared back. Dean couldn’t read his expression.

But then he looked down at Dean’s cock, where it was lying hard and impatient against his abdomen.

“What do you ...?” he asked, trailing off.

“Like this.” Sliding his hand around the angel’s, not quite able to wrap his mind around what he was doing, he brought it down and slid it around his cock.

The grip was gentle and tentative and maddening, and Dean tightened his own hand. The angel let himself be persuaded, and _oh, yeah,_ that was good.

Dean let out a sigh of relief as the angel’s hand moved obediently under his, let Dean set the pressure and the speed over his dick. It was just what he’d needed. They used firm, short strokes, their fingers hot and sweaty as they moved together. The angle was awkward and some lube would have been nice, but it didn’t matter, it felt so good with the angel tucked up beside him.

He was already straining – he wouldn’t need much, it couldn’t take long.

Dean was breathing hard, and realized the angel was beginning to pant against his neck, too. “Keep going,” Dean encouraged, letting his own hand fall down to cup his balls. After all the innocent whisper-touches, the newly-confident pressure of the angel’s hand felt _amazing_.

“Don’t slow down, man,” said Dean, as the angel’s hand fell back into a more languorous rhythm, “keep it up.”

“Humans are always in a rush,” the angel murmured. He sounded half-asleep, and when Dean chanced a glance at him, his eyelids had fluttered shut and he was biting his lip absentmindedly, like he was trying to focus, to shut everything else out.

Dean was a pro at jacking off swiftly – when you hunted with your brother, time was of the essence – but there was no need for that now. This was nice too. He dialled back his impatience, focused on the angel’s hand as it moved with increasing confidence up and down his length – no quick, short, vigourous strokes now, but careful. Firm. Slow burn.

It was weirdly good.

It was even better when the angel let a curious thumb circle the head.

When Dean came, he came long and messy with a groan that felt like it had been punched out of his stomach. His come bubbled out over the angel’s fingers, thick and sticky and slow. The angel made a noise and started to pull his hand away, but Dean pressed it tight, kept up the pressure as his dick pulsed though his orgasm.

“Holy shit,” he wheezed.

He felt boneless and entirely blissed out, his thighs loose and trembling. It was a good long moment before he came back to himself, but when he did, the angel had pulled back a bit and was watching him keenly.

“Thanks,” Dean managed, still short of breath. Their hands were covered in Dean’s come, but Dean twined their fingers anyways, and the angel let him.

Dean drew up the sheet to wipe his jizz off their hands. The angel’s hand was limp in his, but his eyes glittered darkly as he watched.

Dean cleaned up them slowly. He was careful to wipe the stickiness from the divots of his knuckles, the creases in his palm. It was a strangely intimate thing – more intimate than baths or handjobs.

“So?” Dean asked, with a lazy grin. “What did you think?”

The angel’s expression was unreadable. Dean was getting used to it.

“It’s very human.”

Dean laughed.

“I mean it’s messy.”

“Oh, and angel sex isn’t?”

“No, it is _not_.”

Dean grinned at the offended tones of his voice. He brought the angel’s arm back over his waist, and they lay there for a while, just breathing, as Dean let the post-orgasm buzz lap gently at his senses.

He resolutely refused to think about what this was going to look like in the morning. But at least the angel was warm now.

All they could hear for a little while was the quiet crackling of the fire and the wind shaking the boughs beyond the walls of the cabin.

Then, quietly: “It’s not like this for us. When angels mate ... It is a merging of grace, of intention. You become one soul with your chosen mate. The act is more spiritual than physical. It is a profound bond.”

“Do you have one?” Dean asked, interested. “A mate, I mean. Have you ever – you know?”

“No,” and the angel’s voice went as brittle as grass in a frost. “It’s not a question I need concern myself with any more. I lack the grace to sense my brethren. I can’t hear their song. I doubt I have the grace to merge.”

Something went cold and queasy inside Dean’s stomach.

On impulse, without thinking, he brought his hand around behind the angel’s head and kissed him. The angel made a soft, startled noise, but Dean settled him with a gentle hand against his collarbone. It was nothing more than a press of lips, just a little _hey there_ , and Dean even felt a little foolish as he pulled back.

“What was that for?” the angel demanded. His voice was unexpectedly harsh, those big, brilliant eyes narrowing aggressively.

“Called a kiss, dude.”

“I _know_ what it’s _called_.”

“It’s what humans do when we try to make each other feel better.”

“I do not need you to make me ‘ _feel better’_ ,” he said acidly, his body priming to recoil.

“’Course not,” agreed Dean readily, switching gears. He stroked a soothing hand down his shoulders and back. “Stupid of me. Shouldn’t have brought it up.”

The angel looked like he wanted to respond to that, but Dean headed him off, pulled him closer, and the angel – tired, resentful, distrustful – let himself be pulled back down into the warmth of Dean’s embrace.

“There we go,” murmured Dean, as the angel lay his head back in its place on Dean’s shoulder. Dean began to massage the stiff muscles of his back again, a kind of physical apology. “Go to sleep, angel. I got you.” He sighed. “I got you.”

Dean anticipated waiting up, making sure the angel got to sleep, but he was warm and sated and there was a fire and a needy, pliant body beside his, and it was only moments before he dropped off, strange arms wrapped around his body.

 

Dean awoke in the morning, warm and rested and in a good mood – which he at least had the decency to feel bad about. Still, last night’s orgasm had been an unexpected bonus. He was also vaguely surprised that the angel hadn’t tried to slit his throat in the night, which was another bonus.

Then again, he wasn’t sure the angel was up to it – in the cold, clear morning light, he looked even worse than he had yesterday. He was groggy and disoriented when Dean reluctantly roused him, and his skin was pale and clammy, despite the fact that he’d slept curled up to Dean’s chest tighter than a limpet.

He no longer looked terrifying – he just looked like a mess. When he pulled away from Dean’s body heat and staggered to his feet in the frigid room, he could barely keep his balance, and when he finally managed to straighten up to examine his injuries in the cracked mirror, he moaned in dismay.

His entire back was black and blue, and the bandages had seeped through; they were bloody all over. Dean caught himself thinking that looked hideous, and it was clear from the expression on his face that the angel agreed.

Whatever grace he’d retained, it certainly wasn’t enough to heal him up quick in the angel way. He was out of the game for good.

And he knew it.

“Sit down,” said Dean, afraid he was going to topple over. “I’ll fix your back.”

Dean reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, but the angel jerked away from the touch so violently that Dean pulled back.

“Whoa, easy there,” he laughed. “Relax.”

The angel fixed him with a look that would have sent lesser men running.

Right. Yes. Angel. Terrifying monster. Wearing his sweats.

Last night’s intimacy was clearly over. They were enemies again.

Still, the angel was pliable enough as Dean convinced him to lie down on the bed, and changed his bandages – if he was plotting Dean’s death, he was doing it secretly, behind the grimace on his face. Mostly he gritted his teeth and pressed his face into the pillow to silence his hisses and sighs. When Dean was done, he arranged the blankets over his back as best he could without scraping the raw flesh.

The angel resisted any suggestion of breakfast or even just hydration, he responded to Dean’s questions with clipped remarks or silence. Dean got the message, and the angel soon dropped into an uneasy doze.

Dean banked the fire and dressed, then assessed their stores. As much as he didn’t want to leave the angel, they needed supplies, and that meant an hour’s drive out. That meant leaving him here – he was in no shape for a car trip down a pitted dirt road. Dean wondered if he trusted him enough to leave him alone in their cabin. The angel might not have been actively homicidal during the night, but there was no guarantee he wasn’t capable of turning on Dean at a moment’s notice.

There was also no guarantee that he wouldn’t just split, and Dean wasn’t sure the angel trusted him enough to be persuaded to stay.

The angel didn’t react one iota when Dean informed him of the plan – he just blinked his big, angry eyes then buried his head back in his arms.

“I’ll leave you some firewood. Stay warm, okay?” Dean said gruffly, but if the angel heard him or cared, he didn’t answer.

Dean wasn’t sure if that was encouraging or worrying, but there was nothing for it.

The flakes were beginning to fall by the time Dean made his way back up the mountain.

He didn’t know what he’d find when he got back, but he braced himself – the angel might be injured, but he was definitely still dangerous. Hand tight on the blade he always kept in his coat, Dean opened the door slowly.

Nobody lunged for his throat.

The angel was sitting bare-chested on floor, knees curled up to his chin, staring out the opposite window at the deteriorating weather. He didn’t as much as twitch when Dean walked into the room.

The room was a disaster. He must have finally found some hidden reserves of strength – he’d smashed the mirror and the gas lanterns and ripped apart the bedframe, and he hadn’t stopped there – he’d torn the room to shreds. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the destruction. He hadn’t been searching for a weapon or a cache. It looked like he’d just wanted to destroy.

“What the fucking hell, dude?”

Dean closed the door behind him with the force of the righteously pissed-off, but the angel didn’t flinch. Dean dumped the groceries in the hall and surveyed the extent of the damage. When Dean looked closer, he could see the angel was shaking again, though whether it was from exertion or the temperature, he couldn’t say.

“Jesus,” he groaned.

“Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?” the angel asked dully, not turning his head from the window.

“Wondering that myself,” he snapped. In angry silence, he began to pick up the pieces.

He hadn’t left and Dean knew why. He could barely walk. It was all dirt tracks out here for miles, and the forest was dangerous. He could have staggered his way to the next rest stop, maybe, but for what? To find another human he trusted even less than Dean? Besides, roads and gas stations were human ways of thinking. Angels flew. He couldn’t fly back to his garrison, let alone get a message to them.

Dean’s anger disappeared.

He cleared his throat, a little embarrassed. “When you’re better – ” _Wings didn’t just grow back, nobody’s getting better, here, Winchester,_ “ – I mean, when you’re up for it, we can ... you can tell me how to get in touch with your garrison, if you want. I’ll help you if I can.”

“It would have been better if you’d killed me,” the angel said tonelessly, still staring out at the whitening world. “I can’t hear them sing. I don’t know how to find them. And even if I did, they wouldn’t take me back.”

Dean had no answer to that.

He kicked the broken lantern instead.

Eventually he pulled out the first aid kit from the cupboard – happily, the angel hadn’t thought of tossing the contents of the cupboards around – and picked his way across the room.

“You’re not going to go psycho on me if I clean your back, are you?”

Dean took his silence as acquiescence, and kneeled down beside him.

“Stay still.”

Dean grabbed his shoulder with a little more force than was strictly necessary and began to wipe up the blood. The angel’s hair was plastered to his forehead with cold sweat; the blood ran in cold rivulets down his spine.

He didn’t make a sound.

Dean felt like a complete asshole.

 

It began to snow properly in the afternoon, thick flurries that built up against the walls. The angel refused water, refused food, refused a blanket, refused to move closer to the fire, even though his temperature was dropping. Dean cleaned up as best he could, and took his irritation out on the broken furniture; the angel watched him, tracking his motions indifferently.

“When will your brother be coming back?” he asked, out of the blue. His voice was hollow and distant.

Sam’s return heralded the end of their grace period, and the beginning of the “what are we going to do with the angel?” conversation.

“Probably not for another few days,” Dean grunted, eventually. “He just texted me. Depends how long the storm lasts, I guess. He got snowed in across the river.”

The angel blinked, uncomprehending, distracted by his own pain. “Snowed in?”

“You know, when the snow gets bad and you can’t leave.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, blinking. “I suppose that would be inconvenient for humans.”

“Oh, yeah? Isn’t inconvenient for you guys?”

“No. Inclement weather doesn’t bother us. We rise above it.”

“Oh.”

They stared at each other.

Dean made up his mind.

The bed frame was a write-off, but Dean rescued the mattress and pushed it as close to the fireplace as he dared. After checking that they had a good stock of wood set aside and he didn’t need to go out to the shed for more, he kicked off his boots and settled down on the mattress. He shucked his flannel and his T-shirt.

“Come here.”

The angel looked at him warily from across the room. Dean sighed. “Jesus Christ, sometime today, please.”

The angel gave him a look that was equal parts _I am a being of awe and terror and you are not permitted to speak to me like that_ and utter exhaustion.

He gave in to the latter.

Picking another fight with Dean was clearly too much for him to handle right now. He struggled to his feet, struggled to get his muscles to cooperate.

Dean stopped him when he tried to sit down on the other side of the mattress. “No, no – not like that.” With more care in his touch than in his voice, Dean pulled the angel down to sit in his lap. He drew the angel’s body in to rest against his, trying not to jolt him as he embraced the clammy skin.

His bare chest was freezing to the touch, cold beneath the skin – not like animals or humans got cold, but like objects got cold. Like stones at the bottom of an icy lake were cold. Cold in a way Dean wasn’t sure he could fix. The angel’s shoulders were bent and stiff from where he’d been hunched too long in the frigid air. It was as though he was trying to shield himself from the heat of Dean’s body, like it hurt him.

Why was he _so cold_? The fire was big and the cabin was warming up again. Even bare-chested, even with the snow falling outside, Dean was a comfortable temperature.

“How do I get you warm?” he murmured, letting his lips touch the shell of the angel’s ear. “I owe you one, man. Come on, let me help.”

“I don’t need your guilt,” rasped the angel, pulling away from Dean’s mouth.

“This isn’t guilt.” That was a lie – it damn sure was guilt, but it was also something else, something darker and maybe even less defensible. He didn’t want to think too hard about the hot knot of arousal at the base of his spine. “I did what I had to do.”

The angel locked eyes with him. His eyes were big and dark, shot through with glassy shards, the remnants of his grace.

“I _know_ why you did it. Humans are greedy, faithless. You can’t understand what you stole.”

Well, _now_ they were getting somewhere.

“For what it’s worth,” said Dean, wetting his lips, “I’m sorry.” The word fell as flat as he’d feared: the three little syllables were completely inadequate. The weird tenderness they’d shared last night seemed completely swallowed up now, disappeared into the absurd void that “I’m sorry” left.

“I don’t want your pity, either,” the angel said, his fury bleeding through in a voice that caught like flesh on steel. Dean winced.

The angel’s hand tightened on his bicep, hard enough to hurt.

“Then what do you want?”

Something dark stared back at him.

Dean took a risk, a terrible, stupid risk. He reached around and rested his hand deliberately over the space where the wings used to be.

The air shuddered, like the entire universe was telling Dean to back the fuck off – apparently the angel hadn’t lost all his powers with his grace. Dean didn’t move his hand, though. Instead, he ran it down the angel’s spine between the wounds.

Another man might have chosen that moment to be gentle, but there was something in the air between them, something that made Dean want to tip it over and watch it shatter.

Without breaking their gaze, he raked his nails along the angel’s spine.

He hissed.

Dean wasn’t imagining it – there was matching fire in the angel’s eyes.

“You’re going to have to work harder than that if think you’re getting my fucking pity,” Dean growled, before he kissed him.

It was sharp and bruising, and something rallied inside the angel at the touch, despite his exhaustion and his pain. He was angry – angry at his own weakness, maybe, angry at Dean – and he gritted his teeth against the intrusion. He pushed back with a surprising surge of strength, and then it was all hands, fierce and messy, as Dean opened up and let him in.

The angel’s mouth was clumsy and cold, but Dean was aching for it. He bit that wet bottom lip as it tried to pull away, dug his fingers into those lean hips and pulled him down firmly onto Dean’s groin. He groaned at the pressure.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” the angel hissed against his mouth as he pulled away, hands ruthless and sharp against Dean’s skin. “You should have left me to die.”

“Yeah, well, sorry to interrupt your fucking pity party,” Dean growled back, struggling against the angel’s unexpected strength.

“Don’t you dare apologize to me!” Dean had clearly flipped some internal switch, because the angel reached back down for a bruising kiss that Dean willingly surrendered to, turned on despite the very healthy dose of fear that was spiking up through his chest. He groaned in protest when the angel pulled away.

Deliberately, the angel’s grip tightened, and okay, playtime was clearly over because that _hurt._ His hands were cold and bruising on Dean’s shoulders; the pressure seemed to go all the way into his chest, his throat, as the angel leaned close and said, howling wind and scraping glass, “You took my wings. I would rather have _died_.”

“Just the one,” Dean gasped, fighting against whatever combination of physical strength and mojo was sending icy spears into his heart. The angel was trembling with exertion, and Dean wondered just how much further they could go before one of them broke.

“Why did you _do_ it?” he yelled, and Dean winced, certain the windows were going to smash with the incredible atmospheric pressure of that voice.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right, go there,” ordered Dean, breathless, before leaning into another brutal kiss, pushing the angel farther into desperation. Anger, pain, hatred, it didn’t matter – the angel was lashing out and it was amazing and fierce and holy shit, Dean knew how messed up this was, knew how close he was to getting his heart ripped out, but he tasted blood between their mouths and he didn’t know whose it was but it was fantastic.

His skin was icy but the blood was hot. Dean could have sworn his eyes were glowing.

“Foolish, _arrogant_ ,” the angel bit out, and all the light in the cabin seemed to swirl around him like a halo, “I could kill you – you shouldn’t have presumed – ” Dean’s vision was narrowing, he could barely breathe, but the angel was distracted by Dean’s lips and tongue, like he was trying to claim Dean’s heat for his own.

“What’s stopping you?” Dean managed to gasp. “You fucking coward.”

“Don’t test me!” snarled the angel, leaning forward to grab Dean by the hair, and that was a mistake. He was still off-balance without his wings and Dean saw the opening before he did. Steeling himself, Dean slammed up against him hard, and the split-second fumble was all he needed to adjust his grip and throw him down to the floor of the cabin.

Dean slammed him down hard against the floor and just like that, with a cry of shock and pain, he crumpled. The strange tension disappeared from Dean’s chest immediately – apparently the angel couldn’t keep that up when he was winded.

Dean moved fast. He straddled the angel’s hips, pinning his arms and pressing his own weight firmly down against his torso.

“Big fucking talk from someone who just got his ass handed to him by a human,” Dean grinned, wiping away the blood.

It was the angel’s blood, he realized – his lip was split.

“Get off,” the angel ordered, gasping, mouth red.

“Make me.”

“Get _off_! I can’t – this is – ”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘please’.”

“This _hurts_!” he snapped, and something else must have snapped, too, because he suddenly looked up at Dean, and all the anger was gone: those big eyes had gone hectic and wild, like a feral thing’s. He tightened his arms on Dean’s in one last desperate attempt to push him aside, but Dean wasn’t budging.

With blood dribbling down his mouth, he whispered, “It hurts. I don’t have my ... my ...” He squeezed his eyes shut, as though trying to keep the words down, but the pain forced his hand. “My grace is gone. This is – it’s gone, it _hurts._ ”

And underneath his adrenaline, Dean felt something coil up tight and hot inside his chest. He got it. The angel was afraid, a brand-new, bone-deep fear. The weight of his pain terrified him.

_Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?_

“Okay,” Dean said, panting. He didn’t remove his weight, even though his knees were starting to protest – he wasn’t sure the angel wouldn’t try to lash out again – but he rubbed a soothing hand up his neck. “Okay.”

The angel quivered under his hand.

“It hurts,” he repeated in a whisper, dull, like he couldn’t quite realize that he’d been reduced to this. “And I’m ... and I’m cold.”

“Okay,” gentled Dean, like he would a skittish animal. After a second’s hesitation, he cautiously moved his weight off the angel.

He braced for another wave of that vice-like power, but the angel merely gasped in relief as the pressure eased up. He rolled onto his side immediately, chest heaving, head pressed against Dean’s thigh as he struggled for breath.

“Okay, angel, it’s okay,” Dean soothed, hand on the back of his neck. “One of those, I know for sure we can fix.”

Dean moved back to sit on the mattress, helped the angel shift his aching bones over a few feet until he was off the floor and they were lying face-to-face, panting. The angel was limp, defeated, and he went easy, giving in to the pressure of Dean’s hands as Dean adjusted their bodies until they were comfortable against each other.

Dean slipped an arm under the angel’s head to cushion him. He was shivering again, his skin clammy, but Dean just wrapped his other arm around his shoulders and pulled their torsos tight. He could feel the fluttering avian heartbeat, so alien, so unlike the familiar gallop of Dean’s own heart.

“Let’s try this again, huh?” suggested Dean, rubbing the angel’s arms and shoulders with his free hand. “I’ll get you warm. Just relax.”

Slowly, slowly, Dean felt the tension bleed out of the angel, felt his own warmth filter through his skin. And Dean held him, because this was weird and fucked up and he didn’t know what else he could do. He pressed kisses to his temple and hair, because he was sorry, he _was_ , and the angel seemed so small and lonely.

His body shuddered when Dean brought a leg around to anchor him close.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, listless in Dean’s arms. “Why didn’t you just leave me?”

“We’re hunters. We’re not complete assholes.”

Silence after that, and it stretched so long that Dean thought maybe he’d fallen asleep until the angel mumbled, “I hate this.”

The words were petulant, but it was such a small thing to say in the face of such a loss that Dean couldn’t laugh.

“It’ll get easier,” he lied, letting his fingers trail along the back of the angel’s neck. “Besides, there are some good things about being stuck down here with mortals.”

“What could possibly be good about this?” But there was no anger in his voice, just heartsickness.

“Show you.”

Dean pulled back so he could see the angel’s face. His skin was deathly white, lip split deep purple. Their eyes met. Dean let his thumb slip over that pale, plump lower lip before he brought his lips to the angel’s mouth.

Dean was cautious: he gave him a moment to get used to the touch, like they hadn’t just been trying to devour each other a moment ago. He braced for a negative reaction, but the angel’s anger had burned itself out. Something broken was shining through this now, and the angel, as though chastised by his previous outburst, didn’t respond, either to push back or pull away. He let Dean kiss him, but there was nothing more than a soft hitch in his breath that signalled his interest.

He let his lips warm the angel’s skin, willing the angel to relax, to open for him. Dean didn’t push further than the angel’s tentative pressure invited, just coaxed him forward with little nips and grazes.

And then, so soft Dean almost didn’t catch it, the angel made a breathless little noise in the back of his throat.

Dean moved a hand over his back, careful not to pull the healing skin, but firm and warm against the frozen muscles. The angel’s mouth fell open with a groan. Slowly, nervously, he welcomed Dean in. The muscles underneath his hands began to react to the warmth of his body as the angel melted, sighing in relief or defeat, he couldn’t tell which.

Dean was hard against the angel’s stomach now, but he pushed that to the back of his brain.

Dean wasn’t usually a big one for making out – life on the road and all that – but there was something sweet about the angel’s lips on his – every touch was an exploration, a new attempt to figure out this impossible puzzle he’d been handed.

And when Dean pulled away, the angel moaned with the loss, and it was all Dean could do to keep from grinning because _hell yeah_ , that meant he was doing something right.

“Don’t – ” gasped the angel, and Dean froze, confused, until he realized that the icy hands on his shoulders were pulling him tight, not pushing him away.

“M’not going anywhere,” Dean assured him, running a warm hand down his side. “It’s okay.”

 “Is this ...?” the angel panted, “Are you ...?” and there was enough desperation and fear in his voice that Dean felt compelled to kiss him again, thoroughly, hotly, until they were gasping against each other and their lips were raw and trembling.

“Not about me,” Dean managed. “What do you want?”

Through his embarrassment and anxiety: “What you did ... yesterday ...”

“Thought you didn’t like that,” asked Dean, determined not to go any further than the angel could handle.

“Angels don’t ... do that.”

Angels didn’t.

But he wasn’t an angel any more, not in the ways that mattered.

“But it felt ...” The angel pushed his forehead into Dean’s shoulder, too shy or frustrated to continue.

Dean rubbed a hand over the angel’s quivering belly.

“Did it feel good?” he prompted, voice low.

The angel nodded, not quite meeting Dean’s eyes, biting his lower lip so hard the skin was turning white.

“Hey, hey,” Dean took his jaw in his hand, forced him to look up with those shatter-bright eyes, “none of that. I can do this for you. Just trust me, for like, ten minutes.”

The angel nodded, jaw tight, his expression equal parts curiosity and trepidation.

Dean kissed him again, cupping his tensed jaw, willing him to relax. Slowly, slowly, he slid his other hand down from the angel’s belly to scrape along the thin line of wiry hair past his navel. The angel let his head fall back to rest on Dean’s arm, but Dean didn’t stop kissing him – forehead, temple, hair – as his fingers pressed against the front of his sweats. It was gentle, no more than a mirror of what the angel had done to him last night, but Dean could feel the first faint stirrings of a dick being coaxed out of sluggishness.

The angel’s shoulders locked hard. “This okay?” Dean murmured against his temple.

“Are you going to ask me that every time you touch me?” he asked, in a poor attempt to hide his anxiety with rudeness. Dean ignored him, let his hand just rest in the heat between their bodies until the angel was able to school his body into relaxing.

Then, keeping a tight lid on his mounting desire, Dean pulled down the waistband of the angel’s pants and finally – yes, God, finally – got his hand around the angel’s dick. It was slender and soft, a poor partner to Dean’s erection, but Dean knew how to fix that – and from the angel’s reaction, he wouldn’t have to try very hard.

The minute Dean took him in hand, the angel’s head fell to the pillow, and now he was panting, mouth open.

Dean grinned and gave into the impulse to kiss that mouth again, heavy and sloppy. The angel kissed back dizzily, confused by the dual assault but surrendering to it.

“Told you you weren’t doing it right.”

He shuddered when Dean gave him a friendly squeeze. A little noise broke from his mouth, lonely and desperate, like he wanted to keep it back but couldn’t. He was velvety beneath Dean’s touch, and it had been so long since Dean had had someone else’s dick in his hand that for a moment there was nothing he wanted to do other than press their cocks together and ride it out hard.

But this was Angel’s First Handjob, and the very patient angel was writhing and twisting under him now, even though he was trying very obviously not to, trying so hard to keep it together. It was time to get the show on the road.

“Ready?” Dean panted, but he didn’t pause for an answer this time.

He began to jerk the angel off – nothing fancy, not too much pressure, just the short, patient strokes of a man who had all night – but the effect was electric.

The angel gasped, a sound so brilliant and piercing that the air pressure inside the room shuddered.

“Jesus, dude,” Dean half-laughed, as the angel struggled to relax his trembling grip on his biceps.

“Sorry,” he said, looking half-stunned, “it’s just – oh, _oh_ – ” He dissolved into incoherency as Dean doubled down with quick, sharp strokes.

He ripped his hands off Dean’s body like he’d been burned, like he was afraid of grabbing too hard – or of letting Dean know how badly he was affected.

He whined under Dean’s hand, though – he couldn’t help himself – and hallelujah, that pretty cock was coming to life in his hand. It was growing slick with precum now, and the angel was panting and sweating and biting his lip, hands fisting in the sheets. The sight went straight to Dean’s dick, hard and leaking in his jeans.

God, he was beautiful like this, those big eyes fluttering closed and that mouth gone slack, beyond words now. There was blood in his cheeks now and a flush on his chest. It was the first time Dean had seen him look truly alive.

“Hey, angel,” Dean panted, nipping the line of his jaw, “I’m gonnna – don’t freak out on me or anything, but I’m gonna ... ”

“Ng,” he managed, biting his lip and twisting his hands in the sheets. He was clearly beyond the reach of Dean’s voice.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean moaned, undone by the sight of it.

There was nothing to do but slide his arm out from under the angel’s head, plant a kiss to the dip in the side of his neck, and shift his body down.

“What are you – ” he began, distracted the sudden absence of Dean’s hand.

The angel made a noise like a dying thing as Dean took the tip of his cock in his mouth. Dean tried to brace him with a hand on his hip, but the angel’s entire body whipcorded inwards and he curled around Dean’s mouth, desperate hands scraping at Dean’s scalp.

He could work with that, Dean decided, running his tongue over the heated length. The angel tasted warm and clean, with just enough of a muted _something else_ to remind him that he wasn’t human. Dean knew he was no pro at this – he was only managing a bit of wet pressure, a few shallow sucks, but it was enough.  The angel was making little shivery half-thrusts, and that was good – that was real good – until Dean heard a weird hitch in his breath.

He pulled off immediately, startled.

“No no, don’t freak out, it’s supposed to feel like that,” Dean rushed, at the same moment as the angel gasped out, “No, please don’t stop, it’s just – new – I didn’t – ”

“Didn’t what?” demanded Dean, because the angel’s eyes were wide and panicked, mouth slack.

But he pulled it together enough to whisper, “It’s just ... _more_ than I thought it would be.” And when Dean made a move to shift up, the angel’s hands fell to his shoulders and held him still. He took a deep breath, took another. “Don’t stop,” he said finally, meeting Dean’s eyes.

 _Are you sure?_ was on the tip of Dean’s tongue, because that pained, vulnerable look wasn’t screaming _blow me_ to Dean, but something held him back.

He felt the dick stretching hard and hungry in his hand, felt the shaking hands hold tight. There were – holy shit – _tears_ in the angel’s eyes, and it hit Dean how really, truly, absolutely _weird_ this must be for the guy.

“We’ll go slow,” he promised. “Are you sure you want this?” Dean barely knew what was at stake for the angel here, but he knew it was uncharted territory.

“ _Dean_ ,” managed the angel. Dean hadn’t realized he’d known his name, but holy hell it sounded good ripping raw out of his throat like that. “Dean, _please_ ... I want ... I want ...” And he sounded raw and fragile and furious about it.

And that was enough for Dean.

With one shaking hand, he unzipped his jeans and freed himself from his underwear.

“I’ll bet this sounds like the world’s worst advice right now, but you really got to relax,” Dean murmured, slotting their dicks together.

The angel gave a little jolt under his hand, meeting heat with heat, looking up at Dean with starry eyes.

“Like that, huh?” whispered Dean, low and throaty in the angel’s ear. “You feel that burn? That’s part of it. And it’s going to get better. I’ll make it better, I promise.”

With a patience he didn’t know he could muster, Dean wrapped his hand around their dicks – and yes, the angel’s erection was bright and livid now – and began to stroke.

The friction was wet and heavy and perfect. Every wet pull of his hand brought forth a moan or a whimper from the angel, feeling it for the first time, overwhelmed with the newness of it all.

“Don’t overthink it,” he said, as he felt the angel tightening up against him. “Breathe.”

Easier said than done, though, with that hot pressure growing between them.

“Tell me how this feels,” Dean whispered, nipping the delicate skin of his throat.

“No,” he gasped, “I – I can’t, I don’t – ”

“Come on,” coaxed Dean, forcing him to stay with it. “How do I know if I’m doing this right?”

“Oh – _please_ , just ...” he panted. He made a motion as though he wanted to grasp at Dean, but held himself back.

“Put your hands on me,” Dean demanded. “I wanna feel you.”

The angel complied immediately, letting his shaking hands find Dean’s biceps. His shoulders were stiff but his hands were gentle, cautious with the privilege. It made something twist inside Dean’s chest.

“Atta boy. Hold on to me. I got you.”

Their careful slowness was beginning to shift into something else. Dean moved his hand move faster, wincing from the build-up as he jacked them both tight and hot. The angel was making such _pretty_ noises now, all flushed and sweet, and Dean kissed his neck, his chest, his shoulders, and the angel was just shivering to pieces under Dean’s hand, and Dean was coming and –

There was a sound like thunder, but muted and distant, and the much closer sound of the center stone of the mantelpiece splitting in two, but none of that mattered – beneath the thrumming urgency of his own orgasm as it battered through him, he could feel his blood boiling, his hears ringing, the angel’s hands tight and hot on his body and a sensation like a punch to his chest. He realized, distantly, that this was some psychic backwash from the angel’s orgasm washing over him, and it was _insane_.

“Holy shit,” he managed, when he could breathe again. There was jizz smeared across his stomach and their dicks were wet and tender in his hand. He gave them a few more soft pulls, working them through the aftershocks. The angel groaned.

Dean propped himself up on one elbow to look at the guy.

The angel had curled in on himself, mouth slack, eyes shiny with tears and steel and whatever other ethereal strangeness was going on behind those pupils.

But he let out a little sound when Dean met his gaze, either a half-sob or a half-laugh, and then he wasn’t alien any more. He was warm and shaking, working through a pain that had nothing to do with Dean.

Dean put a hand through his hair, easing him through it. “How was that?” he asked, when it seemed that the angel might be able to speak again.

The angel answered slowly. “Is it always like that, for humans?” he asked. “That ... much?”

“You get used to it,” Dean answered honestly.

“I’m not sure I deserved that,” the angel said, quietly.

And Dean sort of thought he understood. But he had no words for it, no more than the angel did, so he licked the angel’s bruised lips instead. He kissed him firm and proper, trailed his lips to the angel’s nose, his cheeks, the eyelashes that had tears on them. And somewhere, between the kisses and the orgasm and the massaging pressure of Dean’s hand on his bruised shoulders, the angel nodded off to sleep.

 

They were snowed in for four more days. Dean fed them and washed them and kept them warm, and watched as the angel slept.

He became restless long before his injuries began to heal, impatient with his new limitations. He didn’t ask for help, and he didn’t complain, but when the twitching and lip-biting became too marked to ignore, he gave in to the not-so-subtle-suggestion of Dean’s hand on his shoulder.

“How’s the pain?” Dean asked, turning him onto his side and pushing the waistband of his pants down.

“Distract me?” he sighed, but Dean was already there, settling his hands against his hips and sucking that pretty cock down to the root.

“Was this charity?” he asked afterwards, breathless, lips pressed to the soft skin behind Dean’s ear.

Dean shrugged. “Maybe. Hard to know. Listen, you’re not going to try and kill me again, are you?’

“I haven’t decided.” Dean wasn’t entirely sure, but he suspected that was a joke.

“Because you could stick around if you wanted.”

The angel pulled back and gave him an unimpressed look. “And do what, _hunt_ with you?”

Dean wasn’t fazed. “You’re handy with a blade. We could use a guy like you.”

“And what am I to expect from you when your guilt wears itself out?”

“Dunno. Come along for the ride and see.”

 

By the fourth day, he was well enough along that he could dress himself. Dean watched him stand by the window, pulling on an old plaid shirt that once had been Bobby’s. He was still adjusting to his new equilibrium – he walked with a sort of strange stoop – but he already balancing better. He seemed stronger.

And now that the fog of pain and depression was lessening a little, it turned out he had amazing senses. He heard the roar of the Challenger’s engine long before Dean did.

“So how about it?” Dean asked, watching him watch the snow melt as they waited for Sam. “What do you think?”

He turned and looked at Dean, with eyes like bruises and a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m not one of you. I’m not a hunter and I never will be. But I am going to find the creature that took my wings. And I’m going to kill it. And I want your help, if you’re willing.”

“You sure you want to go after something that can take out an angel?”

“I’m down, but I’m not out,” the angel growled, "and I'm not stupid. Are you going to help me or not?”

“Sure we can work something out.”

“Half of that bounty is mine, too.”

Dean was nonplussed – he hadn’t even been sure that angels understood how human money worked. “How do you figure?”

“It was my fucking wing.”

Dean grinned. Apparently this angel could swear, too. “Point taken. We'll talk.”

The dull roar of the engine died, and Sam’s boots sounded in the hall.

“Hey, Sam,” said Dean, turning around to greet his brother. “Meet Cas.”


End file.
